


Shadows of Better Men I thru IV

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Alex thinks about Mulder.





	Shadows of Better Men I thru IV

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Shadows of Better Men by Te

Shadows of Better Men  
by Te  
11/98  
Disclaimers: Neither Alex nor Mulder is mine, technically, but I sure do like playing with other people's toys.  
Spoilers: Tiny ones for most of the Krycek episodes, FTF, and The Beginning.  
Summary: Alex thinks about Mulder.  
Ratings Note: R for poor language, implied m/m interaction, violence shot through a soft lens.  
Author's Note: Sister Blue reminded me it had been a while since I'd sent her any new stories, and I mentioned what a pain in the neck it was that Mulder wasn't more like her. This happened.  
Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue for endless inspiration and holiday cheer, and to her and Alicia for fine audiencing. To Rye for marvelous beta.

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Shadows of Better Men  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I used to think it would be easy to love him. I know, that probably doesn't come as a shock to you, considering all those adoring glances I gave him while we were partners... But just remember that most of that was an act, all right? Back then, he was simply a mark, if a particularly well-dressed and attractive one.

I used his appearance to make it easier to play the puppy. 

Agent Alex Krycek would dream about fine tailored wool dragging against his cheek as Mulder pushed him to his knees. Agent Alex Krycek would have liked nothing better than to have his mouth fucked into some sluttish new shape while Mulder looked down in perfect aging rich boy arrogance. 

Agent Alex Krycek jerked off thinking about just that, every night of his short, pathetic life. 

But I wasn't Agent Alex Krycek then, and I never will be. This isn't some butch game. I'm smart enough not to deny myself what I like just so I can be a better man. I like fucking and I like being fucked. But I never hated myself enough to let some pansy ass like Agent Fox Mulder get under my skin. 

No fucking way. It was only *later* when thinking about him started to feel dangerous.

Ruthless punches, a gun to my head, and some cheap little hood ornament digging into my spine. Suddenly, Mulder was more than just some lily-lipped half-assed traitor whining about truth and justice. I got away, and reminded myself that even librarians get crazy on acid. 

The next time I couldn't blame it on the drugs, and the *next* time it was pure, unadulterated brutality. I started to wonder if his old drunk of a father had taught him anything useful after all. I started to dream of a Mulder who aimed all that delicious violence at *other* people. 

I saw the look in his eyes -- empty rage, cool and just this side of insane. I wanted. 

It didn't take long after that drive to Marita's for me to figure out that I could love the man, because suddenly he was *kin*. Have you ever felt that? Listened to or looked at someone and realized that, whether or not they believed it themselves, they *knew* you?

Even if it was only because they were just like you in some ways... God, it's thrilling. It's a gunshot coming from too close to ignore, and too far to be absolutely sure it isn't aimed at you. Just another death wish, and I knew myself well enough to know precisely what that sort of thing did to me. 

And I didn't care at all. 

I wanted him, all of him. I wanted him to scream my name while I fucked him through a wall. I wanted to watch him kill a man by inches and suck him off when he was done. Lick the blood from his face and show him my favorite spots to ditch weapons and bodies. 

I believed I could have that, if I just kept trying.

If you've never known kin then you have no fucking clue what I'm talking about. I don't think any of us get things like that too often... it's enough to make me think Plato wasn't just a sentimental old fag in a sheet. If you've known kin, then you understand. 

Looking at Mulder was like staring at some unpolished gem, or perhaps some chunk of steel waiting to be hammered into a proper weapon. I looked at him and I saw a soulmate for the ages, and so I did my best to run away from him. Going back "home" and doing my business. Activating former operatives with codewords stolen long ago from a dying man's breath. Bending them to my will. It was an old desire to have an army at my back, perhaps childish, but the practicality of the action allowed me to justify it.

But I got caught, thinking with my dick, and damned if I shouldn't have just fucked everything I could get my hands on back home. Better than an ice cold whore with her own damned agenda.

Lessons learned. The American shadow government might be an old boys' club, but a determined woman can always grow her own set of brass ones if she wants to. And if she doesn't have her own dick she can damned well buy one. The end result is always the same: You, bent over anything handy, learning yet again how to be someone else's bitch. 

If she wasn't so much like me I'd let her live for amusement alone. As it is, she's damned well going to have an accident. 

And the end result of that little escapade? Still another master for me. Another leash to choke myself against for the sheer, unadulterated hell of it. Another chance to see Mr. Mulder. He'll never be Agent Mulder to me again, no matter how many times I make myself say it.

He's grey now, and he knows it. Or, at least, I thought he did. I tempted him with a kiss. I teased him with endless notes and promises, promises... I even delivered on a few. And in the end, I wound up with his gun pressed under my eye and the rest of him molded to me like so much clay. He was less another person than a sculpture of lust, melted, sticky on my body through God knew how many layers of clothes and when I asked him --

"For once, why don't you take what you really want?"

\-- I honestly didn't know if he'd shoot me or... or bite me. Hard on the throat and I didn't have time to cry out before he made me whimper. His tongue was hot and restless and it was a long, long time before that gun was moved.

Fuck, it was just as perfect and dirty as I'd wished, and I didn't, couldn't curse my stupidity with Marita because it had gotten me right there. Backed up against yet another anonymously scummy alley wall with that lush mouth wrapped around my cock.

The Christians say everything happens for a reason, and there's something marvelous in any religion that allows me something to believe in.

And so it went. A night of pain followed by a night of welcome pain. I knew he still wasn't the Mulder I thought of as mine, but I thought I could feel him getting closer every time he wrestled me to the floor and fucked me hard for no one's need but his own. Or begged me to do the same. 

Then came the belts and cuffs and, what do you know? Suddenly, I'm his lover of choice because he couldn't dare ask the sainted ones to do this thing for him, because no one deserved to be a part of it that wasn't, well, us.

I could've told him a few things about Skinner, but I told myself I didn't want to burst that particular bubble. Then I hated myself for a while for being such a *mealy-mouthed* liar. I kept my secrets to myself because I liked the way he moaned and screamed. For me. 

But then it occurred to me that this... this welcomed punishment, Mulder's atonement through suffering... It wasn't getting him any closer to where I wanted him to be. 

This wasn't the Mulder I wanted, and our pleasant little relationship wasn't getting us any closer to the vision I had of the two of us on my bike, killing and fucking across the countryside. He was still a Fed, I was still his nighttime indiscretion. I was sick and fucking tired of hiding in the woodpile alone.

He might tell himself every damned night that I was just the punishment he deserved, but it was a lie. I'm no hypocrite. I trade in lies, live them every day I walk this stupid world, but I didn't ever lie to him about *this*, and I refused to let him do it to me. 

So I left him for a while. Made sure he got his precious X-Files back and disappeared. Watched him from the shadows and waited. I knew it wouldn't take long for him to join me there. He needed this, you see. Needed *me*. 

Months passed before the day he finally lowered himself to come looking. So sad at first... no one, *no* one does kicked stray like Mulder. Spewing all this self-serving bullshit about how everyone left him and accusations that I'd been using him. Yet another fight and I swore to myself that if he ever hit me again when I hadn't asked him to I'd cut off his motherfucking hand.

I swore it to his face as he lay pinned beneath me. Panting and rock hard under yet another pair of fine wool slacks. 

I told him I was sick of his lies to me and to himself. Told him to take a good look in the mirror and see if he could still claim to be so clean. Pointed out my blood on his knuckles. Grabbed his hand and made him poke at the bruises he'd left *this* time. Gave him an image of sweet, rich rotting fruit and asked when he was gonna take the taste he'd always wanted. 

"I'll never be you, Krycek."

Yeah, well, he couldn't if he tried. And if I wanted me I'd liberate one of the clones that are undoubtedly sleeping peacefully in some thick green ooze in one of the thousands of conveniently abandoned warehouses littering this fine country. 

So I just looked at him until I could see his face soften, and kissed him gently until his tongue was struggling to pull mine back into his mouth. We tasted of each other's blood and I was hard in moments.

It took a while to pull away -- I'm not made of stone -- but I managed it, breathing roughly against his face, watching that too-short hair ruffle slightly before slowing. I asked him:

"When I kiss you, what makes you surrender to it?"

"The blood, the pain--"

I slapped him. And again, to see him snarl. 

"What do you want from me?"

"Same thing you do, asshole. A free fuck and a little time to forget."

I think I almost cried. No, I know I did. It may not be something I do often, but that acid burn just behind your eyes is absolutely unmistakable.

This is me, this is me wanting what I can't have. Nothing new, but I'd never thought I'd let myself be refused something... something like *this* by anyone but myself. 

I shook myself out of it to find Mulder staring up at me with that brand of contempt he'd polished so well all those years ago. 

"You want romance, Krycek? Buy yourself a more expensive whore. You want a blow job? Open up your pants." All cool professionalism. No anger, no want, nothing. There's something painfully absurd about having to wade through acres of bullshit with *Mulder* before getting to anything like truth.

I got off him and walked out the door. Thought about leaving my gun behind, but I've never been fond of melodrama. 

Shut it behind me and walked away.

Lessons learned. You're never too old to dream, but only kids look cute when they whine about life not being fair. I was never that pathetic, and I never will be. There are still wars to be fought, and it's better to be in love with a fantasy of your own making than a real man. Fantasies never... disappoint.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

Notes: Also at least partially inspired by Alicia's "Decorations" and a certain recent thread on SlashX. And thanks to Viridian for pointing out how painfully perfect "When You Don't See Me" by the Sisters of Mercy was for this... title stolen from there.

 

* * *

 

Shadows of Better Men II: Unveiling  
by Te  
11/98  
Disclaimers: Still not mine, and I'm starting to get used to the pain.  
Spoilers: Not a one.  
Summary: Mulder wants to have a chat with Alex about a few things.  
Ratings Note: R for poor language, and implied m/m interaction.  
Author's Note: This is a sequel to "Shadows of Better Men." I was talking with Dawn Sharon about it, and she wanted to know what happened next.  
Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue for being the exception to every single icky rule about humanity. To Dawn Sharon for fine and vastly helpful writer's therapy, as well as for the inspiration that made this story possible. To Cynthia and Rye for fine, thorough beta. All remaining errors are my own. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Shadows of Better Men II: Unveiling  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The warehouse was cool, and had the subtle echo of those places recently denuded of incriminating evidence. It felt like home, though his apartment remained curiously full of Alex's scent and presence, passage of weeks or no. Alex's shoulder was warm and solid under his hand, and while it was right and practical to hold on tight...

Mulder spun Alex around to face him, careful to keep his gun aimed squarely at the other man's temple. It hadn't been especially difficult to find Alex, surprisingly enough. Apparently the man's "business" demanded he stay in the area.

It would certainly explain the relative frequency of their encounters in the few months they'd been... together.

"What the fuck do you want, Mulder?"

"Just explain something to me, Krycek, in case there's a next time: whom exactly did you think you were fucking, and why? I like my scripts to be clear."

"There won't be a next time."

"Then satisfy my curiosity. I'm very, very interested in your answer."

Alex knocked the gun away and practically spat his words. "Get used to disappointment, asshole."

Mulder laughed, and couldn't bring himself to care about the darkness in it. "Oh, I am, Alex. I am."

Alex leaned casually against the wall; made no motions toward leaving. "So? Why are you here, Mulder?"

Mulder carefully holstered his gun and considered the question. Really, there were a lot of ways to answer, and he briefly contemplated giving all of them. After all, coming after Alex had already done more than he'd ever believed possible to crush out the last dying whimpers of pride. 

"I want to know."

"You want this, you want that. Did it ever occur to you that what you want is meaningless?"

"Are you even talking to me at all?"

"Yeah, I think I am. You're used to being the damned victim, Mulder. And yet it never fucking stops you from lashing out. Or maybe it's the reason why --"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Do you honestly believe you have a right to be the hurt one here? What fucking planet do you *live* on, Alex?"

Alex didn't speak, though his eyes burned in that way Mulder had come to believe meant he wished to. Perhaps it *was* unfair to put Alex in a position where in order to win an argument he had to, Lord protect us, talk about his feelings, but Mulder just didn't give a damn.

"How 'bout it, *Alex*? Tell me how I hurt you. What ever did I do to break your fragile little heart?"

Alex snorted. "You give yourself an awful lot of credit for someone who'd stalk me just to have a fucking *lover's spat*."

"Ah, but that's just it. We were never lovers at all. I thought we were--"

"No one pays you to think."

"Fuck you, Alex. You can't have it both ways. Were we lovers or not?"

"I'm not the one who suggested I find myself another whore."

"No, you weren't. And I'm not the one who decided that the best way to handle an imperfect relationship was to "fix" the other person."

"No? I have to admit, I never got tired of your lovely little passive-aggressive moues of disapproval each time I left."

Mulder managed to restrain the urge to roll his eyes. "Forgive me, but I find it hard to believe that you were just going on bagel runs."

Alex pushed off the wall with one booted heel and stepped closer, raking Mulder from toe to head in an ostentatious display of contempt. 

"And if I wasn't?"

"How could you even *fantasize* that I'd react well to your 'day job?'"

"Gee, I dunno, Mulder, maybe it was the 'Oh, God, Alex fuck me please--'"

"Just because I want your cock doesn't mean I have to approve of what the rest of you does."

"And just because I like your ass is no reason to assume that I get off on abuse."

"You wouldn't know abuse if I punched you in the face."

"And here we go. Newsflash, Mulder: That was always your favored brand of foreplay."

Mulder waved the last off. "What the fuck do you mean, 'and here we go'? Here we go, what?"

Alex pulled back and seemed to be taking his measure by his gaze. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Yeah, I do. I'm slow. Enlighten me."

Alex's mouth tightened, and he somehow gave the impression of pulling back further still, though his body never moved from Mulder's space.

"You really find it hard to believe that anyone ever suffered like you, don't you? Oh, you pride yourself on wringing your hands at the fate of others, but it's all just victim's ego, isn't that right?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Let me put it another way. 'Oh, of course I know your pain. I've lost someone dear to me too. Of course, the circumstances were far, far different -- kindly interpret that as *worse* -- but still, I feel your pain.' Does that sound familiar?"

"You sonofabitch."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one who wanted to have this little talk, now am I?"

Mulder shook his head in disbelief, and Alex turned to walk away.

"You honestly can't see yourself in that at all, can you?"

Alex paused at the door, and the oddity of only being able to see one fist clench and unclench struck Mulder for a moment. Was this where he was supposed to think about all Alex had suffered, and so excuse him? The idea had its temptations, but this was neither the time nor the place for granting quarter. 

"You can't, can you?"

"You want to point out my faults, go ahead. I'm listening."

"How noble of you."

"Do it or don't, fucker. I don't have time for your oh-so-entertaining sudden realizations about my character."

"Look at me."

Alex cocked his head for a moment, and Mulder could see the sarcastically quizzical expression on his face long before he turned. 

"I'm looking."

Mulder was abruptly unsure what his reasons had been for the request. He feared it had far too much to do with a last-ditch desire to have Alex crumble at his expression. Some cinematic moment of realization and forgiveness, perhaps followed by a tearful kiss. Alex, as could only be expected, didn't seem to share his enthusiasm for the idea.

"You... you tried to *change* me, Alex. And when it didn't work the way you wanted it to, you walked out. Just like --" Mulder cut himself off ruthlessly and tried to regroup. "Does it bother you in the least? Have you ever woken up to find out you weren't the one being ma -- being fucked at all?"

Alex didn't respond at first, and the silence stretched uneasily. Mulder briefly reconsidered the simplicity of physical violence.

"So what does this have to do with your massive case of victim's ego?"

Mulder threw his hands in the air, but the wish to believe Alex was just striking out was too powerful to ignore.

"You want to play that way? Fine. Let's just try to remember I'm not the only one with rules, shall we?" 

"Answer the question or let me leave, Mulder."

"Let you..." The thought was incomprehensible and Mulder shook himself out of it. "You say I'm utterly immune to the idea that people can hurt. Well, isn't that what you wanted? Never mind, don't bother to answer. Just tell me how that's so different from you getting pissed at me for reacting badly to your subtle brand of personality readjustment."

Alex's eyes narrowed, and the effect was somehow a lot more... vivid... than any of the winces and cries when he'd just hit the man. There was satisfaction to that, and far too much sadness. 

"It's because you see me as flawed, right? You were just trying to make me *better*, and how dare I strike out at you for that? You were trying to do right by me."

The other man's gaze went distant, and he seemed to be arguing with himself about something. 

"I don't know, Alex... I think my component parts are just a little too used for that sort of thing. You need... you need to start fresh." The gentleness in his own voice was not enough of a surprise.

Alex shook his head fiercely, and began to pace. Mulder wondered if anything else needed to be said at all. 

"I don't know... I don't know why I ever thought it would be a good idea to fuck around with someone like you."

Mulder couldn't hold back a wince, but Alex wasn't looking at him. 

"This... we... Christ, you make it sound like I was trying to Build the Better Lover, Mulder."

"Weren't you?"

Alex stopped his pace with a harsh whispering scrape of bootheels on dusty concrete, turned to look at him with a strengthening ghost of a wry grin. "Weren't we both?" 

It was as much of an admission or apology as Mulder was ever likely to get out of the other man, and the whisper of "I'll take it" in his mind was both shameful and inescapable. 

"I never wanted... I wanted *you*, Alex. I didn't mean what I said. It's not... it was never just the sex."

Mulder watched the humor die on Alex's face, and tried to make himself believe that some good could come of this understanding.

"I don't know if it was just the idea of having someone... someone enough like me that I could... could just fucking *relax* or not."

"I know." 

"Shit."

Mulder laughed, smiled. Wondered when he'd ever gotten to be the tragic hero. It was stupid, it was cliched and painful. And it was too much like fate. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly."

Alex looked as though he wanted to comfort him, and Mulder made a conscious effort to pull himself up straighter, tighten his expression.

"So... so what is this, Mulder? What am I supposed to do now?"

You wanted to leave, so get the fuck out of here. "I don't have a fucking clue."

Mulder shook himself one last time, and started to walk to the door. He felt himself pause as he passed Alex, perhaps for a kiss, but then realized his feet were still moving. He felt Alex's eyes on his back, but did not turn to see if that, too, was an illusion.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

"You bought a mask, I put it on  
You never thought to ask me  
If I wear it when you're gone..."

 

* * *

 

Shadows of Better Men III: Decisions  
by Te  
12/98  
Disclaimers: If they were mine, they'd never actually stop having sex for more than a few minutes at a time. This is how you know they're not mine.  
Spoilers: Not a one.  
Summary: Alex does a little more thinking.  
Ratings Note: R for poor language, implied m/m interaction.  
Author's Note: After that beating I gave him, Alex acknowledged that I may have had a point. In chrono-logical order:  
    "Shadows of Better Men"  
    "Shadows of Better Men II: Unveiling"  
    "Shadows of Better Men III: Decisions"  
The first two are pretty necessary to understanding this, I think.   
Acknowledgments: To Dawn Sharon for letting me pin her down so I could tell this story to her. Oh, how necessary she be. To Sister Blue for needing me every once in a while, and to Ladonna for fine beta. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Shadows of Better Men III: Decisions  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't need him. I don't, not really. When I don't see him, he doesn't exist.

Unfortunately, he's become easier to see since last we spoke. 

A lot of what I do consists of waiting. Motel rooms, alleyways, well-appointed drawing rooms... it doesn't matter, really, because in the end it's just me and a clock. 

And at least the alleyways keep you sharp. Wind and rain, the sort of smells that demand further analysis... yes, alleyways are always best for the waiting. Not least because he's harder to see there. 

No mirrors, no televisions... at the most, all I need worry about is a chanced reflection in some oily puddle, when something in my own image reminds me far too much of the way he looked at me that night.

"I wanted *you*..." but that isn't what he meant. He *needed* me. It was in his eyes, in the way his shoulders twitched under the suit jacket. Come here so I can hold you close, taste you in every breath. And... and I told him the truth, I thought. That was always the plan, anyway. Never lie to Mulder about anything *important*, make him separate the two of us from everything else in his life. Something if not pure, then at least good.

I told him I didn't know if I felt the same way, and he understood, and he walked away. But that wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was never supposed to be the stupid one, not in this. 

Then again, according to him, *I* wasn't supposed to be the stupid one either. So we were both playing our little games, his, as usual, far more subtle than my own. So... so what if *his* "understanding" was really just the confirmation of a lifetime's worth of bad relationships? Of course I don't love him, no one ever has and no one ever will. 

I've spent my life believing that anyone can believe anything, so long as my goals are met. And if my goal was to cut him out of my life, then his little trip down memory lane should have suited me just fine, right? 

Right.

But I wouldn't hurt like this if I wasn't telling myself yet another lie in there somewhere. 

He *needs* me. I can see him now, watching and waiting for someone who's never gonna show up again... at least, not for anything other than business. I still have business with Mulder. I could tape this disk to his morning paper, and walk away. Or, I could go there right now and put this disk in his hand, and walk away. Or I could slip it in his pocket and see just how badly he needs me. 

It's a drug. I know I must be fooling myself to some extent here, but that need... that need in his eyes was powerful.

Unforgettable. 

Drugs are *nothing* but little bits of tweaked chemistry. Any addict will tell you that, when you get right down to it, it's the *need* that drives them on. Chemistry can be defeated with chemistry. Need... need can be beaten by nothing but will. And even then... it never goes away. Not really.

Mulder needs me. Wants me there to taste and touch and fuck. Wants to hear my voice, I know it. And the power... the power is meaningless.

Because somewhere along the way, I got myself a monkey on my back. A big, mean baboon with claws and fangs, and sometimes I think that if I turn around fast enough, I'll be able to see my spine in its paws. 

But I don't try. 

I know what *I* want. I know what I need. And that's to be looked at that way for the rest of my life. I'm needed for something I can damned well provide. Not just a service, but the idea that I'd do this thing for him. Because I...

Well, that's the problem.

What if I go to him, and offer myself, and he asks me why? Do I tell him it's because I want his body, miss the way his cock felt when it tried to ignite itself along the roof off my mouth? Or do I tell him something closer to the whole truth?

"Gee, Mulder, a funny thing happened when you looked at me like I was a steak and a beer in the desert..."

He's got that shrink training. How long before he figures out that he's the *only* one who has ever looked at me that way? 

That, in the end, my reaction to it could just be... just be that of a bird shown something shiny? That he's an... experiment.

I... I want to just go there anyway. I'm good at lying, and this... this is more important than any mere emotional concern. I have to *study* this reaction and find a way to cut it out of me. It's a liability, it could get me killed. 

And I've got a lot of shit to take care of, first. 

So I go, and I knock on his door, and if he opens his mouth to question I'll slip my tongue inside. Beg him with my body to show me just how much he needs me. And, presumably, I'd eventually figure out what it is he does to me with his need so no one will ever be able to do that again.

I want that. I can feel that. Like some shameless spirit has possessed my clothing, turning every casual brush of cotton into a caress. I could go there right now, and offer myself for his use, my edification, and our mutual enjoyment. 

And yet, I remain here. In this chair, in this room, in this nameless little motel. Waiting for... nothing. I have no orders, and I've already made sure that no one will miss the information I plan to give Mulder until he actually decides to use it. It will be too late, and my tracks will be covered.

But I'm still here. And there's no way I can convince myself that it's for any reason beyond not wanting to... not wanting to *do* that to Mulder. After all, I've already subjected his body to more experiments than he'll ever remember; there's no real reason to do that to his... mind.

I argue with myself about my needs, and my wants, and, in the end, it's meaningless in the face of hurting him again. There's no way to know I'd learn anything useful, even if I did. Because... 

Because, if this is love, then I'm already screwed. 

A million poets, mundane and sublime, can't be wrong. Just because I've spent the majority of my life laughing at them doesn't mean I'm God, after all. 

So, what if I love him? Is that reason enough to go to Mulder and make him touch me until he believes? Well, what do I usually do when I find myself hopelessly screwed?

First, find out how bad it is: I'm risking my health because I can't bring myself to hurt Mulder again. It's bad.

Second, damage control: Too late. The damage has already been done to me, I know it, I've been jerking off thinking about *one goddamned look* for far too long. But it's just possible that no one else knows about the weak spot.

I make a note to take a shot at him in public sometime. Just because.

Third, solutions: I've ruled out experimentation, so I can either just go and... do *something* to convince the man that I care about him deeply, or I can sit here. And wait. 

My shirt is just a shirt again, and it's too cold here. I'm moving to the door before I have any clue what I'm doing and stop.

Is this all it takes for me to go running after the man? No, I can hear myself say, I *also* "need" to give Mulder this information. I remind myself that he can get it just as well with his morning paper and there are a few moments of blessed silence, and there are a few moments where I'm not actively holding myself *back* from the door.

But the silence is brief. Love or no, I screwed myself the minute I acknowledged I wanted *his*... love. Uncomfortable to even think, but I doubt he'll ever make me say it out loud unless I'm blowing him at the time.

And there it is, right there. The assumption of a future. Easy as water, insinuating as any nasty rumor. I want him, and, in the end, that's reason enough for me to open this door, walk out into this parking lot, and drive this anonymous bag of bolts and stale fast food to Alexandria.

Where I'm needed.   
   
~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

 

* * *

 

Shadows of Better Men IV: Mad Drift  
by Te  
12/98  
Disclaimers: Still not mine, and my pain is deep. Very deep.  
Spoilers: Oh, a tiny reference to Dreamland. Just don't even pay attention to it. Trust me.  
Summary: Mulder... well, he does some thinking.   
Ratings Note: R for implied m/m interaction, some bad language.  
Author's Note: The boys seem to be in search of resolution. In chronological order:  
    "Shadows of Better Men"  
    "Shadows II: Unveiling"  
    "Shadows III: Decisions"  
    "Shadows IV: Mad Drift"  
It would probably help to read the others first.   
Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue, for consistently being herself. To Rae for dire threats and fine audiencing, to Ladonna for great beta. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Shadows of Better Men IV: Mad Drift  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex is asleep is beneath me. I am resting my head on his chest, still damp with our sweat and other things, and I can't help but wonder what the hell happened.

Two weeks ago, I hunted him down and held a gun to his head until we could break up like adults. Perhaps that seems extreme. But there have honestly been times when I've wondered if the man sends out some sort of adolescence ray. 

My mother would get lonely sometimes and begin to talk, randomly, about her childhood. One of her favorite tales was of the inkwells that used to be found in school desks, and how the boys, apparently, lived to dip the girls' braids in the things.

I think my mother's childhood was a tad more rural than most.

In any case, all children go through that in some form. Fighting, tormenting, generally making the lives of those we are attracted to as hellish as possible. For most people, this sort of thing ends, oh, say, right around the time intense masturbation begins.

At least, that's the way it was for me. It was always much safer to beat off regularly and at length than to roll around on some dusty playground with another kid, and *then* have to run and beat off. If I never hear the words "whatcha got in your pants, Fox?" again from another clueless kid I can die happy.

I have to stop and examine that last statement for land mines. I think I want to remove the word "clueless" from the record, your honor. I really didn't mean to qualify that. Really.

In any case, Alex just seemed to drag me right back to middle school. From the beginning. I mocked him, I abused him, I treated him like some "second" out of an overheated British boys' school novel. And then I went home and beat off thinking about taking it that one last step.

Ripping him out of that bad suit, or maybe just moving it aside enough for me to get to what I wanted. I would go home, and I would dream of sucking him off, and using his come to slick myself just enough that I didn't rip him apart when I fucked his sweet little ass. 

He was thinner then, at least it seemed that way. I could only ever get glimpses of his form under those terrible suits. I suppose it's entirely possible that if I'd ever tried to peel him out of them, I wouldn't have been able to stop.

No, it's probable. All that lean muscle may be new, but his skin... His skin is smooth, silken and nearly hairless. Once I'd seen it, I wouldn't have been able to stop, and I would have begun using my mouth far sooner than in the fantasies, and he would have had to pull me off by the hair if he ever wanted me to stop.

Which he doesn't appear to. I've been dragging my lips over his chest for quite some time now, and he's still sleeping peacefully. I can tell. When he's not awake, he smells different. Quicksilver motion and emotion stilled, thickened into sleep-scent. A winter slowing of sensation, warm and needful. 

I don't want him to leave.

I don't know why he's here. 

Last night he knocked at my door -- knocked, perhaps the first sign of trouble -- and held out a disk to me. He didn't say a word, but when I reached to take it from him his hand trembled, and his fingers tightened on the disk, and he shook his head tightly. It was all very... different. 

I began to wonder if this was some new paranoia game that Frohike had been remiss in teaching me, and looked around for unobtrusive pieces of machinery. The next thing I knew Alex was... Alex was *welded* to me, breathing hard against my face and so close that I needed to get closer.

There are so many things in this world that we remain unaware are necessary until we are given them, for some brief moment. 

I wanted to ask him what he was doing here, and I may have even done so, but the only answer I received was Alex slipping his hand in my pocket and taking far too long to leave the disk. And he was searching my face, and whatever he saw there made him close his eyes and buck against me.

And whisper my name against my lips until I thought I would come from the sound alone, and had to kiss him silent solely for my own protection.

Needless to say, whether or not I actually asked the question, it was never answered. It seemed as though I blinked and found myself naked, blinked again and found myself on the bed. The bed. Well, it hadn't taken me long to decide to be happy I had one again, however the hell that happened, and it took even less time to be happy Scully had convinced me to lose the waterbed, if not necessarily the mirror. 

I didn't want to look in the mirror, but I didn't have much choice. It had been... too much to look at Alex himself. I don't think he blinked the entire time he was sucking me, just watched my face, watched my eyes. And whatever he saw there pleased him.

I had thought we were beyond such insecure tests of each other's sexual prowess, but perhaps this was his way of apologizing... No, that's not quite right. If anything at all, this was the *result* of an apology spoken to no one but himself. Some approximation of "you know I'm sorry, but I don't know yet if you've accepted it, so I'm just going to have to blow you until you make me believe that you *do* accept it."

But if that were so, he never would've let me push him off and make my own paths along his body, roads for the peaks of his nipples and valley of his navel. And then giving up all hope of poetic love-making just to shove my tongue deep inside him and make him cry out at the assault.

I don't want him to leave. I'm not done, I'm not finished, I need to hear that again and again. I need. 

The solution to that problem has ever been a simple one: provide that which is needed and be allowed to take whatever it is that *you* need in return. You scratch my back, I'll lick yours. Or something. 

So what is it that I can give Alex to keep him here? I already figured out that it isn't my body, however its use may satisfy us both in the small hours. And I've already decided, with noble indignation, that I couldn't toss away what I think of as my soul. Not even for him.

That hasn't changed.

The question becomes not "why are you here," but "what's different about us this time?" I wasn't aware of any vast changes in myself beyond wondering if I was a fool more often than usual. But the idea that he's changed -- that anyone *would* change for me...

Some things go beyond ego to insanity. Far easier to believe that his balls ached without my mouth to suck them, that this is some Byzantine game over and above the others he's played with god knows how many victims, including myself. 

But he wanted more than just a quick fuck, always did. Got pissed when I implied that's all I'd wanted. Adolescents, Christ, we're too old to be this young.

I should be punished, smited with Acne from On High for such immaturity. 

The thought makes me laugh, and he stirs, a whisper of adrenaline cutting through the warm cloud of his rest. His rest in my bed. I nuzzle against him in the hopes of making him settle, and he does, murmuring. 

I stop and listen to his heartbeat until it slows and regulates nearly enough to put me back to sleep.

I don't want him to leave. 

But this... this isn't right. We haven't solved anything, have we?

Why *does* Alex think I left that night? I left because I didn't want pity sex, didn't want to make love to anyone who didn't love me, but does he know that? Perhaps, to him, my leaving was just a response to his... failure.

Not just to make me into the Mulder he wanted, I think he'd acknowledged that long before I hunted him down again, but also his failure to... have an adult relationship with me.

Whether he knew it or not, I can't help but think that was one of his goals. A "well, hell... I never tried *this* before" moment. And so he failed, and so I walked out on him. After all, to a man like Alex, every failure has most probably meant some larger catastrophe. 

It is, quite literally, all about him. At least when he fucks up.

We are not so different, perhaps.

So that leaves us, where? He comes here because I no longer have to leave him because he's... learned his lesson. He was going about this whole relationship thing wrong, and now that he's willing to try again, I should just lay back and enjoy Alex.

New and improved Alex. 

Jesus. Did I do this?

The way he watched me tonight, hungry for reassurance... that *need*.... Is it possible that now that he's acknowledged I was correct, he really is doing his best to fix the problem? Said that way, it doesn't seem so ominous. 

But this is Alex. Alex's idea of soul-searching and self-improvement is to find the flaw and remove it, ruthlessly and brutally. I want to believe that such things aren't possible... but I know, I *know* that I may not be sleeping with the same man who shared my bed regularly for a few months just a little while ago.

He wanted me to change, I told him I couldn't, he believed me. And then... and then he went back and made himself an Alex who could live with that. Because... because whether or not he could have the Mulder he originally wanted, the Mulder I am was too... too important to lose. 

And now he wants to make sure he suits me. 

I feel sick. I don't know if it's better or worse that I honestly don't think he's consciously aware of what he's done to himself. I don't know how I feel that he's done this at all. 

Is this what I wanted? Did I ever make the wish loud enough to catch the attention of some passing deity with a sick sense of humor? Who is this man in my bed?

I don't want him to leave. But does that mean I'm acknowledging my feelings for him like an adult? Or is it just the victory of a spoiled child?

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

 

* * *

 

Shadows Variation: So Are You  
by Te  
November/December 1998  
Disclaimers: Very much not mine, but the drugs sure are.  
Spoilers: Vague one for Dreamland. In fact, it's a little inaccurate, too. Don't worry about it.  
Ratings Note: R.  
Summary: Alex tries to learn Mulder his philosophy.  
Author's Note: I begged Pares to give me a story challenge and she did. How to classify this... Hmm. Not quite a sequel to "Shadows of Better Men I," though it would probably help to read that first.   
Acknowledgments: To Alicia for fine audiencing, to Spike for many helpful comments, to Sister Blue for showing me that all things can be romantic, to Viridian for the title, and to Ladonna and Alicia for fine, fine beta.

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Shadows Variation: So Are You  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I want I want I want. Do you know what that means? I bet you think you do. Seems rather simple, doesn't it? You want a nice car, you want your boss to respect you, you want to get laid by someone whose technique doesn't put you to sleep. You want *nothing*. You wouldn't know desire if I walked right in and --

Well, perhaps that's the answer after all. 

Would you like that, Mulder? 

I would. 

And, really, that's all that matters. 

I can almost feel your sneer at that. I'm so close to you right now. You're sleeping on that bed. Convincing yourself it's yours again, maybe? After all, no other body but yours ever rested on it -- you hope -- and all mammals mark their territory after any perceived intrusion. Really, you're just being a very healthy ape.

No matter how much you miss your couch. 

Would it surprise you that I know you so well? Probably, and I feel as though I should be insulted by that idea, sometimes. Just sometimes, mind you. I know after all these years how hard it must be to assume you're known, and understood.

But, Mulder... I've had my years, too. I studied you head to heel and back again. I read your papers. I interviewed all but one of your instructors. And that one... well, it's a shame that his resistance to our methods finally made him have that unfortunate heart attack. Such is life, yes? 

I want to hear you laugh with me at that. I could make you laugh. I could catch you unawares and then I'd see that crinkle of shock, that utter disbelief that not only am I just as awful as you remembered, but... so are you.

You are, beloved, you are. 

You are my sweet, my bitter chocolate rich with lush liquid sugar and I need do nothing but take a bite and hold on. I can hold on to you. I can make you...

I was wrong to leave, I see that now. The project must never be abandoned without completion or eradication. You were never complete, nor is it possible to destroy you without destroying myself. 

I love you, don't you see?

Oh, Mulder.... If I say that when you wake will your head turn to me so sweetly?

But to let us both live after my spectacular failure... No, it cannot be done. Every scar, every burn, every casual mutilation... They were not punishments. They were, each and all, badges. Medals. I, Aleksander Ivanovich Petrov am given this award for the survival of human stupidity. And with each pinning, more of the imperfect was sloughed away.

Flesh, all flesh, and have you ever watched the decay? The flesh is *nothing* without the fire of the soul. The wet, shapeless mess grabs at the spark and buries it deep. Thus are people made. Those of us who are lucky have clumsier flesh than most, already strained and worn thin as crepe. It grabs too quickly, lacks finesse, the fillips and tendrils of the un-souled skin fumble at their chosen spark, places here and there forever burned.

You know them when you see them on the streets, Mulder. I know you do. We know and love the all, the all of them, because we are all *kin*. Born scarred. Born with parts of ourselves scraped clean of the detritus of form and muscle. The fire needs *nothing* of the flesh, and when we see kin... we see in their eyes the paths that searing heat carved.

Bone? Bone is lovely, but it remains corrupt. No, Mulder. There is nothing physical that can be claimed a proper avatar for our coming purity. I want so much for you, my love. Will you listen? Will you let me give what I can?

I'm whispering in your ear, but you do not wake. I misjudged the strength of the little pill in your takeout. Or perhaps you crunched it down like a sliver of water chestnut... You're not supposed to do that, Mulder. 

Oh, you make me smile. It feels so good, we are none of us immune to the pull of flesh, the odd rush and flow of chemistry, to brighten the eyes, show the teeth. When you wake up, I will make you explain that last to me, beloved. I will make you tell me just who I'm supposed to warn off with this ridiculous show of merry good cheer you engender. 

"Beware, lest I love you!"

Would you laugh at that, too? Not for long, I don't think. It has a truth, if only artistically. Si tu ne m'aime pas, si tu ne m'aime pas, je t'aime... et si je t'aime, prends gard a toi... 

Perhaps not so silly for us, Mulder. Though the thought angers me, I must admit. What *right* do you have to fear me? What hurt have I given you that was any more than what you *needed*?

Brief stir, a crease in your forehead. Not enough. I want you to wake. I want you to answer me. It is my right, Mulder. I *own* you. 

I catch myself. I am bracing myself awkwardly above you, breathing hard against your face. I could watch the flutter of your eyelashes, frustrate myself with the stubbornly static spikes of your hair. I could rest my weight on yours... I did not give you enough that you would not wake if breathing began to become difficult. And then you would wake, to my face, to my mouth stealing away those tiny breaths you'd managed to gasp.

I take everything you hold dear, isn't that right? One day you'll understand why your precious ones had to die, your so-called partner, your so-called friend. It was your fault, beloved, and I'm sad for you. I am, you make me weak, and if you weren't so potentially powerful for both of us, I'd kill you, too. 

But they... they had nothing to offer you but more flesh. More lies and weakness. They poisoned you. They poisoned my *work*. I love you too much to let that continue. I will never let anything hurt you again, this I promise.

I roll to your side, and content myself by stroking your face, smooth and smooth and then the uneven catch and burr of stubble. I would kiss you, but I feel no need to test my immunity to fairy tales when you did not wake. 

I could sleep. I could rest here beside you, trusting you not to try to hurt me when you awake. You need me, I know it, I saw it in your eyes before I walked out. You need me and you... you understand want. Not like the rest of them. You want and I am here for the taking, beloved. I would not have you go without. That is pain, and I won't hurt you again. 

You're listening, if only deep within your fire. It burns always, Mulder. No sleep for that which will never weary. No, no, it's all right. It's all right. I talk of things unsleeping, too far beyond the flesh to need this nightly surrender to the dark. You hate it. I know you do. Through all the dross of your humanity, one thing remained clear and pure as the tone of a bell through an empty land. 

Never surrender, to anything. Fight on, and on, and on... 

Now, I would be the first to point out the foolishness of such actions without proper focus, but you have the gist of it, beloved. You will fight this surrender, coming through to the other side tireless and unquenchable. And I will help you. I will be there, always at your side, forever.

I will never leave you again.

And, oh, there will be so many battles to follow. Never fear, because I was once as unfinished as you, and I made it here. With you. It's beautiful, Mulder, I swear. No flower, no curve of a hip, no shallow victory of the world can compare to this. I have seen them. I have earned my medals. Nothing compares to this. 

You don't know of what I speak yet, do you, beloved? It's all right, I know it's hard to see such things and believe. 'Especially when you're drugged into unconscious stupidity,' I hear you say, and I chuckle. I was always proud of my mind's ability to speak in your voice, so flat and solid. Other people's voices are like music, flowing, ephemeral. We are no such things, Mulder. Never doubt it. 

I am yours, beloved.

I am your anger, your fear, your pain, your desire. I will be your teacher, I am your lover. You will exist as I do, our own light in the darkness, knives for the living, burnings for the dead. You move in your sleep, a stutter of soft lips, a low moan... You can see it. I know you can. Hot winds, dry with the dust of the lost...

Do not mourn for them. Do not struggle so against the bonds. You sleep still, and your motions have all the effect of those of an insect trapped in amber. Do not mourn, beloved. Do not fight me. 

We are all given the chance to *become*, and if they'll never mount the heavens on grey wings, drifting upward, gently lifting, and cry their joy to the night... well, such was the choice they made. Is it not better this way, Mulder? 

It is. 

You'll see. 

You'll see. 

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

End Notes: The challenge in question was to write an incubus story. Don't quite think I got there, but what the hell? I think this is something like a 'what if' story. What if Krycek was just as whacko as he seemed in "Shadows of Better Men?"


End file.
